Lethe
by Cardboard Edward
Summary: It was pouring outside the record shop. LSODM spoilers.


It was pouring outside the record shop. It was a flood, sending plastic cups down drains and people running after their wayward umbrellas.

And of course, her umbrella was sitting uselessly on the floor of her apartment. Deirdre sighed, tugging her lanyard over her head, rubbing her keys between her fingers and bracing herself for the downpour. She was tempted to take one of the records and use it as head coverage, but she didn't need to get fired. Again.

One of Roy's newspapers was sitting on the counter, so she swiped it and covered her head with it, trying not to think of how stupid she looked. She locked the door behind her.

"Goodbye, drafty prison," she muttered, frozen fingers moving too slowly. "Until next week."

Deirdre stood under the awning for a few minutes, staring at the raining and shivering pathetically. She had dressed cute in a dress and leggings, which was for nothing because the one customer she'd seen that day was a little old lady shopping for something for her grandson who had stared in disapproval at her bare shoulders.

She was really regretting it now. She straightened up, grit her teeth, and ran straight for the parking lot. Running, at least, was easy. It was a weirdly out of body experience. She felt like someone else when she ran at full speed.

Her truck was parked as close to the entrance as possible – for speedy escapes – so she was able to fling herself in with very little trouble. She dropped her damp newspaper hat onto the front seat and immediately shoved her keys into the ignition.

_ Heater. Heater now._ She turned the key, already picturing herself picking up some soup from the store, before she realized the engine wasn't working. She turned again, to the same awful failed start up noise.

Deirdre dropped her head to the steering wheel and groaned.

Whatever. If she called AAA she could just stay in the car until they came over with jumper cables, and…

Her phone was dead.

Deirdre's head dropped to the wheel again. This why she wasn't supposed to go on Tumblr during work.

She opened the truck door with a sad little moan, kicking it open. She slid out again and tried to formulate a plan. She could hide in the record shop, but it didn't have a phone, and she couldn't just stay in there. She'd probably freeze to death.

Her best chance was to ask to borrow someone's phone, which would probably lead to her murder. Wonderful.

She wandered the parking lot, soaking wet, squinting into people's windows. All empty. Deirdre walked back to the record shop and down the sidewalk, past the creepy donut shop that was never open, and saw a black car parked on the curb. She sprinted towards it, trying to fight some optimism as she spat out rain and her feet slid in her shoes.

It was a really old car. Nice, too. It didn't look right on the street – it was supposed to be parked at some mansion.

She approached the window, and her heart soared when she saw a man seated in the front, reading a newspaper. She wondered if he would disapprove of her sacrificing one to be a hat.

Her hand – soaking wet and freezing cold – gave a little nervous knock on the window. The man raised his head, and looked right at her.

He looked like he had seen a ghost.

"Hi?" She asked, the cold turning it into a question. "C-can I use your phone?"

He just _stared_ at her.

She frowned, and then motioned for him to roll down his window. He hesitated, and then did. She noticed his hands were gloved. She wished she had gloves.

"Hi," she repeated. "Can I use your phone?"

More staring. He was attractive, she guessed, in an older way. His hair was dark and grey at the side – salt and pepper, kind of – and his eyes were cold and blue. He wore a fedora, which would have made her wary if he was about twenty-five years younger. As is, it just made him look fancier. And richer.

"… Why, exactly, would you need to use my phone?" He asked at last.

His tone was rude, but it wasn't what got her attention. She was surprised at his accent – Irish, like hers, which was exceedingly rare here in Philadelphia, but the important part was his voice itself. It was deep and smooth, and something about it made her both extremely flustered and feel … strangely safe.

"My truck broke down," she explained, finding it difficult to keep his gaze. "I need to call triple A. Unless you have jumper cables."

He looked at her like he was disgusted that she thought someone like him would have jumper cables.

Okay, sexy voice or not, she didn't like him.

He didn't do anything, so she tried to sweeten her tone.

"Please. I promise I won't steal your phone. Here," she said, suddenly, shoving her purse at him through the window. "Have that as collateral."

He took it, his brow furrowing. "Fine." He removed something from his pocket and turned away from her, which she thought was way overdramatic for a lock code.

He handed it over to her and she dialed the number, still standing in the pouring rain.

"What exactly," he asked, "is triple A?"

"American Automobile Association," she replied, listening to it ring. "Roadside assistance and stuff. I'm guessing you're new to this lovely country. "

"I've been here before," he replied. "It's just been … a very long time. …What about you?"

"Hmm? Oh, I was born here. My parents weren't, though. That's where the accent comes from. I think they were from Dublin?"

He was about to reply when she heard someone on the phone.

"Oh!" Deirdre said. "Hi, my car won't start? Yeah, please. Oh, I'm outside my work…" she gave him the address to the record store as well as her information. "Thank you."

She hung up and handed him the phone. "It'll be twenty minutes."

"That sounds reasonable."

"Not in this weather." She shuddered. "Can … can I sit in your car?"

"Aren't you worried that I'm some sort of killer?"

"Not particularly."

He hesitated. "You're going to get the seat soaking wet."

She really didn't like this guy.

"I'll sit on my purse. Please. I'm freezing."

"I'm not sure that's-"

"Open the passenger door or I'm just going to crawl through the window." The threat was out before she could stop it. Deirdre was shocked at her own words, and was about to apologize when he sighed and unlocked the car.

"Thank you!" Deirdre chirped, walking around the side and settling in the seat. She was surprised by how comfortable it was – it seemed to be perfectly set for her. She felt like Goldilocks – the seat was just right.

He didn't have the heater on, which was weird because it was freezing, but as soon as she had settled in, he leaned forward and turned the knob.

"Do you want the seat warmer on?" He asked.

"Yes, please." Deirdre said. "I'm surprised you even have those. What kind of car is this?"

"It's a 1954 Bentley R Type Continental. One of only 208 ever made."

"I would have been happy with "it's a Bentley," she replied. And then blushed. "I'm sorry, that was rude. I don't know what's come over me today."

"It's fine," he said, softly.

"No, no, I'm sorry. I should have asked like five minutes ago – what's your name?"

He hesitated. "Skulduggery Pleasant."

"… Excuse me?"

"Skulduggery Pleasant," he repeated, sounding out the syllables. God, his voice…

"Is that some sort of code name?"

"Of sorts," Skulduggery said, shrugging one shoulder. "Your's?"

"Deirdre. Deirdre O'Donoghue."

He gave a strange little laugh. "Of course."

She frowned. "What?"

"Nothing. What do you do, Deirdre O'Donoghue?"

She tugged on her hair. "I work at a record store," she twisted in the seat to point at the store behind them, "and I'm in my second year of college."

"Second?" He repeated, confused.

"Took, a, um, break after high school." She cleared her throat awkwardly. "Bet you can't guess how old I am," she said, tone playful.

"Just turned twenty two," he said, softly.

Deirdre's eyebrows rose. "Uh, yeah. Good job." Thrown off, she searched for an ice breaker. "What are you doing in Philadelphia, Mr. Pleasant?

"I'm working on a case."

"A case? You're a detective?" She brightened. "That's so cool. Are you solving a murder? Oh, god, I'm probably completely distracting you." She rose up from the seat slightly and checked the car's clock. "Triple A should be here soon and then I'll be out of your hair-"

"You're fine," Skulduggery said. "Don't worry about it."

Deirdre settled back down. "Okay. Um. What do you like to do? For fun?"

He hesitated, and then took a book from the dashboard and help it up to her.

"The works of Gordon Edgley?" She read aloud.

"They released it for the tenth anniversary of his death. Have you heard of him?"

She shook her head, and Skulduggery looked almost … disappointed.

"Ah," he said. "Yes, he's … he was an Irish author. I don't know why I thought you would."

"I don't read a lot," she admitted, "only, like, Harry Potter. I like the magic."

She looked at his nice pinstriped suit and his fancy leather gloves and suddenly felt shabby in her vintage dress and her shoddily cut bangs. She felt so childish – here was a man who was cultured and well read and she was talking about _children's books._

She looked down at her hands and went silent. After a few minutes of nothing but the rain pouring down the windows, Skulduggery spoke.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice low. "I'm not … it's been a long time since I've really talked to anyone."

Part of Deirdre's brain was trying to remind her of that 'some sort of killer' comment, but the rest was curious. "What do you mean?"

"I lost someone very important to me," he said, and she could hear the pain in his voice he fought so hard to hide.

She looked at him, sympathetic. "Your wife?"

"No," he answered. "Though I lost her as well. But that was a very long time ago."

"Oh," she said, feeling very awkward and trying to recover. "Your child?"

"Likewise," he said. "That was also a very long time ago."

Deirdre covered her face with her hands. "I should just shut up. I'm just going to open the door and swim down the street, thank you."

He laughed. "Don't worry about it. I shouldn't have brought it up."

"I'm glad you did," Deirdre said softly. "I lost my parents, too. A few years ago. Now it's just me." She played with the ends of her hair. "…But the thing is, sometimes I'm not sure if I'm sad because I miss them or because I'm supposed to feel sad."

All he did was nod, but Deirdre had the feeling he understood her perfectly.

"Grief is a strange and cruel thing," he said. "I've been on this Earth far longer than you have and still don't understand it."

"You're not that old," Deirdre said.

Skulduggery cracked a wry smile. "Thank you."

"It wasn't supposed to be a compliment," she said quickly, flushing.

"It wasn't?"

"No. Not that you're unattractive. You're just…" she buried her face in her hands again. "I need to stop talking."

He laughed again. She liked his laugh.

"Thank you," she said, suddenly. "For the phone and keeping me company."

"Of course, dear," he said, softly, and then his eyes widened. "Dra. Deirdre." His face went pink as he tried to recover from his mistake.

Deirdre grinned, glad to not be the embarrassed one for once. "You can call me dear if you want to."

"It was an accident."

"Fine," she said, still grinning. "But for future reference." Oh God, was she flirting with him? She never flirted with anyone.

"It's stopped raining," Skulduggery said abruptly, looking out the window.

"Oh," Deirdre said, unlocking the door. "I'm gonna see if they're here yet."

"Understood," Skulduggery replied, and he turned the Bentley off. She was (very pleasantly) surprised to see him walk around and open the door for her.

"Thank you," she said, smiling. She glanced around for AAA.

"No luck," she said, with a sigh, and leaned against one of the buildings. Skulduggery joined her, and she laughed.

"You don't have to stick around, you know. They'll be here in like, five minutes."

"Perhaps I just enjoy your company."

Deirdre scoffed. "Uh huh. You're this gorgeous, exotic, rich detective and I'm a broke college student working in a record shop who can't even dress properly for rainy weather. I'm not even pretty," she said, "so it's definitely not that."

He looked at her like he couldn't believe what she was saying. "Deirdre, you're beautiful."

She blushed. "You're just saying that."

He took her hand, and she blushed harder. "I am not," he said, softly. "You're stunning."

Deirdre looked down. "Thank you," she murmured.

"Why don't you ever look me in the eye?" Skulduggery asked, his hand still holding hers.

"Because you're really attractive," she muttered, "and I need to stop making a fool of myself."

He tilted her chin upwards. "I don't mind."

Their eyes met, and Deirdre's breath caught. Seized with an impulse – and she was not normally an impulsive girl – she closed the gap between them and kissed him.

He kissed her back immediately, and the kiss was – was not something she had ever felt before. For the first time ever, she felt … like she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

Her life up to this point had seemed like someone else's – and her feelings were all things she had felt she had to feel. This was different.

This was _real_.

She broke from the kiss with a little smile that Skulduggery returned, but then his face grew serious. "Deirdre," he said, and she thought he really liked using her name. She liked when he used it, too. "Deirdre, I need to tell you something."

"Okay," she said, smiling. "Anything."

He took a deep breath. "You're really-"

Over her shoulder, she saw a truck with the AAA logo. "They're here," she said, breathing a sigh of relief. "Let me get this settled and you can tell me, okay?"

He hesitated, looking tense, and then relaxed. "Of course," he said, taking her hand and kissing it. Deirdre felt dizzy. She was about to yell at the truck to stop here, but was surprised to see it pull over without her having to do anything.

"Hello," said a man as he climbed down from the driver's street. His accent was also Irish, and Deirdre was beginning to think that this was a little weird. "Deirdre, right?" He asked, and she nodded.

"Me and my assistant are here to, uh, assist you." He gestured at the passenger seat, and Deirdre noticed a blond who looked absolutely miserable.

She glanced over her shoulder, and saw Skulduggery standing there, just out of earshot, looking strangely wary. He looked like he was about to march over there, and she gave him a little wave to show it was okay. He didn't relax much.

The man followed her gaze, and his mouth tightened. "Fletcher," he said, turning his head back to the truck. "You might need to take Deirdre away."

His co-worker didn't move. "I don't want to do this, Deacon." His accent was British.

Deirdre frowned.

"You have to, Fletcher," said Deacon. "I'm sorry."

And then Skulduggery was running towards them.

"Don't you dare," he said, voice booming. "Don't you dare take her away from me again."

Deirdre cried out, scared, and then there was a hand on her shoulder and suddenly her entire world was spinning.

Somehow the fear went away. There was something familiar about this, something comforting.

Suddenly she was standing in a girl's bedroom. The ceiling was sloped, and outside the window, she could see the pier. Beside her was the blond. Fletcher.

Deirdre gasped and fell to the floor.

"Shit," said Fletcher. "Shit, I didn't mean to go here." He ran his hands through his alarmingly spikey hair. "Skulduggery's probably-"

"What about Skulduggery?" Deirdre said, her voice still a gasp. "Is he okay? Is that man going to hurt him?"

Fletcher's expression was sad. "You don't even remember him," he said, softly, "but he's still all you care about." He put a hand on his forehead. "We need to get back before your sister gets home."

"I don't have a sister," Deirdre said, her brow furrowed.

Fletcher just shook his head. He held out a hand, and Deirdre let him help her up before realizing that they were off again, spinning through space.

Suddenly they were back in Philadelphia. Deirdre staggered, and fell back against the car. The back of her head hit the truck and she gasped at the pain.

Her vision swimming, she tried to find Skulduggery – and saw him hoisting Deacon into the air, his hand …

His hand was on fire. But he wasn't doing anything. He wasn't panicking at all.

And his –

_ His face was gone._

All that was left was a skull, gleaming white. Rain poured off it as it began to rain once more.

How hard had she hit her head?

Deacon swiveled his head around to look at them. "Fletcher, help me!"

Skulduggery turned as well, and dropped Deacon. "Valkyrie," he said, relief flooding his voice.

"What?" Deirdre said, putting a hand to the back of her head to check for blood. She was so dizzy. "Skulduggery, what's going on?" She tried to reach for him, but her head hurt and her entire body felt sluggish.

"You're just making this harder for yourself, Pleasant," Deacon said as he rose to his feet. "You know why we have to do this."

"Please," Skulduggery said. "Please."

"I'm sorry," Deacon said. "Fletcher, we have to go."

Deirdre turned around and saw Fletcher bite his lip, hesitating. And then he nodded.

"No," Skulduggery said. "No," he said louder, almost shouting. He had no face, but somehow she could read his expression of heartbreak clear as day. He reached out for her and she staggered towards him, stretching out, as their hands almost touched. And then she felt an arm pulling her back.

The last thing Deirdre heard before she blacked out was Skulduggery shouting her name again.

Valkyrie.

_Valkyrie._

* * *

"Is she okay?" It was Fletcher's voice. It seemed to be coming through a fog in her mind.

"It's a mild concussion," came a woman's voice. "She's fine."

"Thanks, doctor, er … uh …"

"Yes?"

"…Thanks, doc."

The woman sighed.

Valkyrie – or at least, that's who she thought she was – opened her eyes and saw the two looking down at her. She was still in her vintage dress and leggings, and they were still soaked. She hadn't been out for long, apparently.

"Where am I?" She asked.

"The Irish Sanctuary," the woman replied, and something about the way she said the last word made Valkyrie feel like it was supposed to be capitalized. "Which is exactly where your Mr. Pleasant will come look for you, but he's still in Philadelphia and won't be here until hours after you're gone."

She frowned. "…Have I been kidnapped?"

The doctor cracked a smile. "No. You've been rescued."

"It definitely doesn't feel that way."

"I'd imagine not, with these idiots' method." Fletcher stood off to the side, looking awkward. "I'm sorry about that. But soon you won't remember any of this."

"What do you mean?" Valkyrie asked, afraid.

The woman's expression was sympathetic. "It doesn't matter."

She looked up as a door opened, and Deacon walked through the door. Valkyrie sat up, tensing.

"Is she alright?" Deacon asked.

"She's fine. Go do your thing. And do it thoroughly," she said, almost reprimanding. "I don't need Fletcher carrying her in looking half dead and crying for Skulduggery in her sleep again."

Had she really? Valkyrie wondered.

"I know, I know. Look, it's been three and a half years and nothing came up-"

"And I'll remind you that Skulduggery found her six months into your first attempt."

"That's because the Sanctuary was stupid enough to hide her in Ireland," he said, dismissively. "But this one? This one was good. He had given up looking for her."

"No," Fletcher said.

Everyone turned to him.

"No, he hadn't. And he never will."

Deacon made a face, as if it didn't really matter. "Well, the next one will be even better."

"And the next?" The doctor asked, tone aggressive.

"By then," Deacon replied, "hopefully the shunters will have found a suitable universe for Miss Cain here."

Cain. Her last name was Cain. She ignored the rest of the nonsense he had said and held onto the thought desperately. Her name was Valkyrie Cain.

"Now shoo," Deacon said, waving his hand. The doctor scowled and walked out. Fletcher simply vanished from sight.

"Hello again," Deacon said, tilting his head at Valkyrie.

"You can't make me do anything." She started to stand, hesitant. "I'll fight you."

"I have no plans to. You're one of the toughest fighters I've ever met." He corrected himself. "One of the toughest fighters the world has ever known."

"Really?"

He sat himself down. "Yep. Skulduggery taught you everything he knew."

She stared at him. "Were we … close?"

"Inseparable."

She felt a little lighter. "What about you and I? Did we know each other?"

He waved a hand. "Barely. Well, you kissed me once, but that's another story."

She pulled a face, and he laughed. "You kissed Fletcher there, too. Not Doctor Synecdoche, though. Far as I know, at least. As for Skulduggery … no one ever knew. Hot topic, if I'm to be completely honest."

"I kissed him," she said, softly. "Just now."

"Good for you," Deacon said with a smile, and it sounded genuine. "Hey, is that a eyebrow piercing?"

Valkyrie reached up to touch her eyebrow. "I got it when I was sixteen. My parents grounded me for a month. But … but that didn't really happen, did it?"

"Nope," Deacon said, and stood. He walked over to her and poked her lightly in the temple, right where the piercing was.

"We gave that to you, as a sort of finishing touch. Not really sure how much a difference it made."

His touch was warm, relaxing. She could feel it spread through her temple, down her body, into her toes.

"Hey," he said.

"Yes?" She said, pleasantly.

"What's your name?"

The girl frowned at him. "I… don't know."

"Good. Now your name is …" She saw him frown. "Damn. This was so sudden they forgot to give me an idea of what I was doing. Hmm. Guess I'm just going to wing this."

"Okay," the girl said, happy just to listen. His finger was still pressed against her forehead.

"Samantha," he said, suddenly. "Your name is Samantha."

"Samantha," she agreed, smiling sweetly.

"Yeesh, too nice. You're a bitch, Samantha."

"Fuck you," she agreed.

"Hmm, maybe not that much." Her head spun and her thoughts felt a little less volatile. "Anyway, Samantha, you're from Dublin. You're going to university in Japan. Can you speak Japanese, Samantha?"

"_Hai_."

The man grinned. "Very good."

He filled her in on her life, hobbies, and personality over the next few hours. She didn't know she was hungry until he told her her favorite food, didn't know she was bored until he told her she had a short attention span.

At the end, he asked her if she had any questions.

"One," she said, voice sharp. "What's going to happen to Skulduggery?"

The man paled. "Uh oh. That's not good. Who's Skulduggery?"

Samantha frowned. "I don't know. Someone important to me."

"Wrong. You don't know him, Samantha. You've never met him before."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. Why would I lie to you, Samantha?"

Samantha hesitated, and then nodded. "You would never lie to me."

"Nope. But after you arrive at the airport with your new things, you won't remember me. Or anyone who comes in here to help you, or the nice man who'll take you there. Okay?"

"Whatever."

"Samantha," he said, reprimanding.

"Fine," she said, voice whiny.

"Good girl."

He walked out. A woman walked in, gave her clothes, took her hair and chopped it into a rather nice pixie cut. She got her suitcases next, from another woman, and then a man took her out of the room by the arm and led her through the building. She didn't pay attention to the building. She didn't care.

At the entrance, however, there was some sort of commotion, and even though Samantha really didn't care, part of her felt compelled to listen.

"He's here," gasped a blond with ridiculous hair.

"How the hell is he here?" A man asked.

"I think he flew straight here, by himself. He wants to see her. I don't know what he's going to do. He just … he just keeps saying her name."

The man put his head in his hands. "Damn it, Skulduggery," he said, softly. "Don't let him in. Get her to the car."

"I have a name," Samantha said, indignant.

"Oh?" said the man, like he was talking to a child. Not rudely, though. Affectionate. "What is it?"

"Samantha."

"Pleasure to meet you."

"Whatever."

He gave a strange sort of smile, and then the man was leading her away again and towards the entrance. Samantha played with her new phone as she walked.

The man opened the door for her, and Samantha sighed and walked through.

As she did, she thought she heard a male voice yelling something.

It sounded like Valerie. Or something.

She really didn't care.

She put her headphones on and turned it up, preparing for the long car ride and the even longer plane ride to Japan.

She just hoped the whole stupid thing was worth it. Seriously, why _Japan_ of all places? It was like her parents wanted her to get as far away from Dublin – and all of her friends – as possible.


End file.
